


for all the nights to come

by reogulus



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reogulus/pseuds/reogulus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There is a storm in her bloodstream, and it's not letting up, oh, but he can't know that.</i>
</p>
<p>Inspired by snkkink prompt, AU where Marco survives Trost and joins the Military Police, gets gangbanged by drunk and horny members of the Military Police looking to take advantage of the young, noble, idealistic recruit. However, this fic is about Annie catching them in the act and putting a stop to it. </p>
<p>There are no graphic descriptions, but references to non-con are included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for all the nights to come

The rain hasn't let up. She’s been lying awake, eyes wide, counting the beats of droplets slammed against her window when she hears the incessant and suspicious noises coming from the lounge down the hall. She rolls out of bed barefoot, arms tense and hands balled into fists, her body ready for a fight she isn't really looking to pick. 

(At least not here, not in the barracks, but the thirst for impact had been keeping you on edge for weeks. What else is new?)

She opens the door to a roomful of her colleagues. Nobody seems to have noticed, all too feverishly caught up in their own game. Then she sees.

The sight in the middle of the room has her paused for half a second. Then she finds her fist slamming into a half-naked man's gut and her foot breaking the nose of another, both of them drop to the floor in the blink of an eye.

She grinds her calloused heel on the rug nearby and wipes the blood off, staring down the rest of them, men and women in various states of undress. "Out."

The room is emptied before she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Their begrudged, menacing looks would have stung, if only she cares to acknowledge them.

For a moment she stands still, listening to her heartbeat. Trouble will find her as soon as daylight arrives, but for now there is a warm living body on the floor to her right, with uniform pants tangled at the ankles, naked and tied and blindfolded and bruised and wrecked. For now her fists have no use. Her eyes are closed; she can't bring herself to look at him for longer than a fleeting moment. Instincts took over as soon as she pushed that door open and saw him kneeling between the wretched legs of the man who just limped out of the room with two near-fractured ribs. Now instincts have left her, left her alone with—

"Annie," his tired, abused throat croaks. 

She turns around, wordlessly takes his arm and lifts him up, pointedly tries not to stare at the marks they left. 

(Lips spit-shiny with pre-come and come, cheeks wet with the same stuff, probably mixed with tears as well. Skin red and flushed with obvious, harsh-looking hand prints on the hips that will no doubt bruise tomorrow. Wrists tied on the back, broken skin against rough ropes, signs of a desperate struggle. You try not to stare, but if you can know anything from just one look, it’s hurt.)

She unties the blindfold, finds a knife and cuts the ropes loose. He manages to pull his pants up, lowers himself onto the couch, and lies there with a wince like he’s aching all over, which he is. She rests a hand on his shoulder. He curls up, knees brought up to abdomen, arms hugged tight around chest, and shivers into her touch.

“I’m sorry, Marco,” she says, shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over him. He accepts the enveloping warmth with as much enthusiasm as he can muster at the moment.

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiles at her, making the cut on the left corner of his lips (somebody must have slapped him when he wouldn't open his mouth—Hitch, perhaps) even more visible. “I’m grateful that you’re here.”

She falls silent. He looks at her in a way that uses up whatever strength he has left in a state of extreme exhaustion. Eventually he closes his eyes and wraps her jacket tighter around himself.

(Your jacket. Four sizes too small, unwashed, made from material twice as expensive as the trainee uniform, but it’s been drenched in the rain and faded by the sun all the same. He clings to it like it just saved his life. Your jacket, yours.)

“We shouldn't stay here too long,” she clears her throat. “Can you walk back to your quarters?”

He nods. She takes his hand, careful not to touch the raw circles on his wrists, puts his arm around her left shoulder and supports him at the waist with her right arm. They’ve made it out the door when she realizes, he lied, he can’t walk, just trying his best to shuffle his feet forward. 

“It’s okay,” she says when he has to stop to catch his breath, before he can apologize for slowing down. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he grunts out the response, starts to drag himself forward again. 

They climb up the stairs, he has one hand on the railing and one hand gripping her shoulder, teeth clenched tight. A streak of lightning shines through the tall stairwell window without a sound, cuts them off from the unlit space for but a second.

(Lifts you up from the darkness, for a split second when you turn to look at the light fallen into his eyes, the shadow of his face, his sweat-damp hair cast upon you.)

The rain doesn't let up. They rest, again, for a bit on top of the staircase. He looks at her like he wants to say something, but resigns to silence when she tells him she will walk him right up to his door.

“Thank you, Annie,” he says, once more, as they arrive at his door.

(This is simple for him. Help came when it was urgently, truly needed. Gratitude, a natural response. What is this to you? What is it? Unexpected satisfaction of the violent urges keeping her up at night, blood and adrenaline singing in your ears as you watched the men hit the ground screaming, you can let yourself be the heroine for this night, and does that make you a hypocrite for all the nights to come? What else is new? Hold your fists, hold them in your pocket, don’t let him see. For now they have no use, but they are here. They are what he can’t know.)

“Don’t mind it.” She pauses, chews on her lip in thought. “Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to stay with you for the night, in case they come back?”

(Let him keep the jacket. Let him keep it, it’s not yours anyway, you can get a new one from the quartermaster, dime-a-dozen clothes for dime-a-dozen people. Let them remember it, hold onto it, along with everything else you have loaned to build your kindness and indifference and every other thing people may remember you by. Lies. They will all be shed, faded into obscurity. Soon enough you will grow a new skin. You always will.)

“It’s all right,” he smiles at her with tired eyes. “I think I will manage on my own. You have done a lot for me already.”

She nods, turns on her heels and he calls out to her as she is about to walk away.

“Annie, you are the bravest person I know. I certainly don’t have that power, neither do most people, but I think—I think you can accomplish whatever you put your mind to.”

(Choose your words carefully, now. Accomplish or destroy?)

She turns back. “Go to bed, Marco.”

“Good night, Annie.” 

This time she doesn't leave until she sees him closing the door behind him.

 

The rain hasn't let up all night. When she slips back into her bed her feet are as cold as stone and her arms are too numb to feel. She keeps her eyes open to the beats of the droplets slamming against her window until she hears the storm stirring inside her, soaring in her bloodstream.

For the first time since joining the Military Police, she sleeps through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> My first actual snk thing that could be called a fic, many things are probably still rough around the edges, concrit welcomed.


End file.
